


Concerning the UFO Sightings Near New Paltz, New York

by orchidlights



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Era Typical Homophobia and Racism, Established Relationship, Extraterrestrial Encounters, M/M, yes this is an AU based off The Vast of Night! what about it?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26722588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchidlights/pseuds/orchidlights
Summary: The year is 1959, and it's a cozy October's eve. Just like usual, the moon is glowing, Steve Rogers is hunched over a comic book inside his boyfriend's bedroom, and there's been a series of strange and terrifying noises interrupting the local Friday night broadcast.Okay, maybe that last part isn't so usual.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> you don't need to have seen The Vast of Night for this to make sense, but give it a spin if you have the time, it's a great little flick.
> 
> Anyways, here's an AU that absolutely nobody asked for, I just really get a kick out of these idiots being a couple of '50s boyfriends, and, well, it's Halloween for the next 31 days, so there's no reason not to write something spooky.
> 
> [Share on Tumblr](https://tresorbarnes.tumblr.com/post/630808710857588736/concerning-the-ufo-sightings-near-new-paltz-new) | [listen to Radio New Paltz](https://8tracks.com/orchidlights/radio-new-paltz-archives-friday-october-16th-1959)

New Paltz was always beautiful in October, and it happened the same way every time. First, the trees would begin to crisp just so. Come Monday morning it would sound like someone dropped a bunch of bang snaps underneath your wheels if you took bike instead of bus down Main. Then, once it got to being below 60 degrees outside, all the houses were suddenly blanketed in a mix of chimney smoke and fog that only wore off for a few hours midday before coming right back at nightfall. Not long after the weather turned, shop owners were digging out their dusty step ladders and orange paint to mint a flurry of pumpkins and oak leaves on their storefront windows, and just like that, the entire town settled into place in expectance of the holidays. 

Despite the amount of sweaters and scarves he had to wear to narrowly escape death year after year, all the bowls of chicken soup and spoonfuls of cough medicine, Steve thinks there’s just something essential, and profoundly exciting, about Autumn.

The Barnes residence is on Tricor Avenue, five blocks away from where Steve lives with his mother. Tricor is near the highschool. It’s a quiet area where all the houses have space to breathe from one another; big lawns and the like. There’s a certain delineation that takes place somewhere on the way over, and it would become obvious only after-the-fact, when Steve would cross Bucky’s well-manicured lawn and rap on their crisp blue eggshell door. The grass that Steve’s mother grew was wild, and often brown by this time of year. Their front door needed a new coat of paint that wasn’t coming anytime soon. Steve was eleven when he first visited Bucky’s house to see the difference for himself. That was how Steve discovered that him and his ma’ were poor.

On any given Friday night in the summertime, you’d be lucky to catch either of them indoors. Buck was always dragging him outside, if not for a last-minute camping trip near Mohonk Lake then just for a walk through the suburbs. It was a good excuse to get away from Bucky’s parents; and even in the flat expanse of their sleepy town, there was a great deal of mischief to get up to, if you knew where to look. Steve’s favorite was going to the tennis courts, six blocks from campus. The floodlights droned on really nicely when it was dark out, and there were always a few old rackets laying around. Steve would run back and forth just to keep up with Buck until he had to scramble for his inhaler, take a few good puffs, and then do it all over again.

It’s not summertime right now. Steve sits on the floor of Bucky’s room, fanning through the pages of _Showcase_ by the light of a bedside lamp. He’s dreadfully behind, having spent most of the past year catching up on _Wonder Woman_ . This issue they’re rolling out a new one: _Flash_. Out of all the powers they were giving superheroes these days, this has to be one of the laziest. 

_He just runs fast? Give me a break._

Real heroes, Steve thinks, should have more than just powers. They need a damn good reason to fight.

“You know, he never says all that shit when we don’t have company.” 

Bucky, tired and full, face buried in Kerouac’s _On The Road_ , is leaning against his headboard. Twin bed. Nobody would suspect how many nights they’ve shared it. In fact, Steve’s positive he’s aggravating his scoliosis in a long-term kind of way with how often he’ll doze off sandwiched between Bucky and the wall. “All that shit”, in this case, means George— _sorry, Mr. Barnes—_ who insisted on dedicating an awful lot of time at the dinner table to the Lord a few hours earlier.

_“Bless this meal and grant that all who eat it may be strong in body and grow in your love...” Steve had dared to nudge Bucky’s ankle under the table with his foot, wrapped in three layers of socks. “...Blessed are you, Lord our God, and Jesus Christ our savior, for ever and ever.”_

_And then, “James, would you like to say anything?”_

_Steve’s heart had leapt up into his throat. Was it some kind of message? Bucky, always the charmer, hadn’t missed a beat._

_“Uh, food looks great, Mom.” He gave Winnie a wink, “Amen?”_

_“Amen”, said the chorus, and then before Mr. Barnes could press anything else, Becca was launching into a story about some mean girl called Katie Peterson, and that was that._

“Maybe it’s because he knows I’m Catholic.” Steve shrugs. 

“Are you?” Bucky scrunches up his nose.

“I don’t know, am I?”

They both have their ears to the ground. It’s a ritual these days, waiting for the rest of the house to fall asleep one room at a time. A distinct clicking sound winds through the downstairs hallway and turns into soft thuds. That’s Winnie taking off her heels at long last. A good sign. Then, out in the kitchen, the dishwasher cycle ends.

“Sounds like they’re headed to bed.” Bucky says.

“Let’s give it another couple of minutes.”

One of the first things they’d promised each-other was to be careful.

Steve had seen what happened to you if someone found out you went that way. As much as he could stand up to all the black eyes he was given for being a skinny sickly geek, adding queer to that string of descriptors might just be the death of him. It was easier said than done. Some days Steve just wanted to shout it from the rooftops, that James Buchanan Barnes was his goddamn _boyfriend_ , that he loved him with every arrhythmic beat of his heart. But what good would that do anybody?

In the name of keeping up appearances, Buck went on a whole lot of joyrides with practically half the cheer team, a couple of miss mathletes, a few good girls, and a few more bad girls. He was damn good at taking them out, but never all the way. Guess he had a rep as a gentleman at this point, and Steve thought that was downright hilarious. If only they knew.

“I’m serious, I think they’re-” Bucky’s interrupted by the sound of a bedroom door closing. _The_ bedroom door.

Steve’s head whips up. 

Bucky drops his book and grins.

“Cm'ere.”

Quietly, but oh so quickly, Steve abandons the comic on the ground and scrambles up onto Bucky’s bed. His knees hit the mattress. The springs whine. Bucky reaches for him, pulling him in, kissing him, at last, _kissing_ him. Steve can still taste dinner on his tongue. Mashed potatoes and chicken and cream soda. His hands are warm and strong at Steve’s hips, and _God_ , it’s _so good_. It’s always good like this when they’re alone; easy to forget that there’s a whole world out there that would love to tear them to pieces.

They break apart once they’re satisfied, although Steve is never really satisfied. He rests his forehead against Bucky’s.

“How was your date?” Steve teases.

“Kelly or Bette?”

“There were _two_?”

Bucky smiles and wriggles out from underneath Steve momentarily. He strains his arm out and flicks on his old battery radio where it sits dusty on his bedside table. It warbles to life, droning giving way to static, and static giving way to music.

_Don't go, I said baby, don't baby,_

_I love you so, you don't have to go..._

“Yeah, I wasn’t really trying to take Kelly out but she caught up with me after school and, I...she needed a ride. Lots of guys were watching. Seemed like the right thing to do.”

Steve moves up Bucky’s body slow-like and comes to rest straddling his waist, slipping his already bundled-feet underneath Bucky’s covers. Steve’s bones are cold by nature, but everywhere Bucky touches becomes warm and soft.

“Did you kiss her?”

Bucky sighs and his eyes roll into the back of his head.

“What do you want from me, man? You know I wish I could drive you home every day.”

“I’m not mad.” Steve assures him, hands splaying on Bucky’s chest. “I just think it’s funny. Everyone loves a greaser.”

“I’m _not_ a greaser.” Bucky says pointedly. This is something they’ve actually gotten into a few arguments about. Steve knows to drop it, even though the amount of hair gel Buck was wearing at that very moment, coupled with his extensive collection of white t-shirts and the fine tooth comb in his wallet, begged Steve to believe otherwise. “I just like my car, nothing wrong with that.”

James Brown's _Please, Please, Please_ comes to an end.

There're a few moments of empty space before an awkward yet familiar voice squeaks out over the waves.

_Sorry! Sorry, I thought I had the next one up... jeez, this thing is. Wait. Okay, here we go, um, this is -,_ He clears his throat, _-next up we're slowing it down with I Only Have Eyes For You. Have fun with that one folks._

“I thought Parker only did Tuesday nights.” Steve comments absently, letting his fingers wander over Bucky’s collarbone, the crook of his neck. There’s a fading hickey that Steve had strategically given him the week prior, right after his date with Jessica Kinsman from English glass. Everyone would think it was from her, and she’d think it was from some other gal Bucky didn’t tell her about. Win-win (if you weren’t Jessica).

“Guess he’s movin’ up in this world.”

Steve looks at Bucky, lazy in the low light of the room, and feels his heart squeeze.

_Maybe Peter’s not the only one._

Steve has been tossing and turning about tonight for weeks. 

It’s just another Friday, of course, safe behind closed doors, safe with each-other, but it’s _not_. None of the Fridays this month have been like they usually were. Steve thinks Bucky would catch on if he weren’t so busy between class and working 4 days a week at his grandpa’s chop shop. He’s always tired. That’s another reason Steve hasn’t coughed it up; to give this poor boy some kind of reprieve.

At first, he thought it would actually be better to wait until summer break to tell Bucky. At that rate they would have three months before it meant anything. A good idea at first, no doubt, but then he realized that might be considered cruel. Every second he kept it to himself felt cruel. The entire situation felt cruel, but it wasn’t as if he could just...

“It’s not like a community station has a lot of options around here. Besides, I think it’s... endearing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, the kid's clearly trying his best.”

“You say kid like we’re so much older.”

Bucky runs a hand through Steve’s hair and drops a kiss onto the tip of his nose.

“A junior to a senior might as well be a toddler.”

They’re _seniors_ now; the whole year laid out ahead of them like the last few yards of a marathon, and that’s exactly the issue. They’re not going to be in high school forever. While neither of them were the epitome of scholarship, Steve’s pretty sure Buck is getting set to start working at the garage straight out and take it one day at a time. Steve doesn’t blame him. If he could live his dreams out in New Paltz with Bucky by his side, _God,_ he would. 

_I got accepted into NYU, and I’m gonna go._

That’s all he had to say. 

He’d been rehearsing it for a while.

_Buck, I love you, but there’s something I need to tell you. I can’t make a living here. You’re the world to me, but New Paltz doesn’t exactly have a lot of big-name publishing houses. NYU really liked my work. They even have a whole focus for comic illustrators. I could try and get into Showcase. Yes, I’ve made up my mind. No, this isn’t easy. How is it my fault you didn’t apply to any colleges? Well, maybe you should’ve._

“What’s up?”

Steve must have been spacing out pretty hard; Bucky actually looks concerned.

“Nothing.” He supplies immediately. “Just, end of the week. Tired.”

_Damnit._

A particularly bold gust of wind outside rattles the trees. Branches screech against the window, the kind of sound that makes you sick as chalkboard nails. Even though the breeze doesn’t make it past the glass, Steve instinctually nestles in closer, dropping down onto his elbows. Bucky’s hands trail up and down his back.

“You know, I’ve been thinking...” Bucky starts “...and, you know, it’s no big deal, but...”

Steve knits his eyebrows together. 

“What?”

Underneath him, he realizes too late that Bucky’s blushing. Reminds Steve of the way he used to look after he finished a boxing match, sweat-drenched and cherry red. Steve rarely gets to see him nervous. He almost forgot nerves were something Buck was capable of feeling. This is the same guy that ended up with a bloody lip in sophomore year for telling the quarterback he couldn't dress for shit and he walked like a fairy. When ribbed about it, he likes to remind Steve _he threatened to snap your wrists for resistance training, what the fuck was I supposed to do?_

“Are you breaking up with me?” Steve blurts out. 

_Yeesh. Talk about projecting._

When Steve feels a gentle smack on the side of his face, he knows he’s earned it.

“What the hell are you _talking about?_ ” Bucky asks him, face halfway between annoyance and total admiration. “ _God,_ you’re so-” Steve is laughing softly, Bucky’s hand smoothing up his face, and winding in his hair “-will you get serious?”

“Yes, Buck, I’ll get serious.” Steve smiles back at him like a little shit. It’s all he can do to resist the urge to swallow whatever he’s about to stay in a big kiss, especially with the way Bucky’s tugging on his hair hard enough to sting.

“Thank you. Jeez. _Breaking up_ with you...” Bucky lets out a deep breath; loosens his grip, “As I was saying. You know, we’ve technically been goin’ together for a year now.”

“Just a year?” Steve asks.

“I know, feels like forever.” Bucky looks into his eyes, “And I love you. A lot. And, I thought maybe, we could...”

The radio switches songs.

_To know know know him, is to love love love him..._

Steve can see Bucky’s breath coming short. He thinks he can feel his heartbeat, too, or maybe that’s his own.

Bucky clears his throat.

“... maybe we could try going all the way.”

_Oh._

_He really did deserve that smack, didn’t he?_

“Well, yeah. We should.” Steve says.

A smile spreads across Bucky’s face.

“Really?” 

“Yeah.” He shrugs in an effort to contain this newfound mixture of excitement and nerve, “Wait, which... which way?”

“Either way.” Bucky replies quickly, and then in a more typical display of magnetism, follows it up with, “Although I guess I was thinkin’ about how nice you’d look if I pinned you down.”

Steve’s breath catches in his throat.

They didn’t teach this in health class, to be sure, but Steve had long since figured out how two guys might be together in that way, if they wanted to. First time he heard about it was courtesy of Billy Thompson, a local dunce with a penchant for headbutting people smaller than him. _You guys take it up the ass, is that it?_ he’d spat out during lunch period in eighth grade, before Bucky socked him in the jaw, and got tackled to the ground in return.

_“Take it up the ass. What does that mean?”_

_Steve asked while he was laying butterfly bandages over a gash in Bucky’s eyebrow._

_“He’s just being a dipshit, don’t worry about it. And don’t ask anyone else about that, either.”_

Steve had thought about it for a long while after, even getting bold enough as to slick one of his fingers up with Vaseline and poke around down there in the dark. He often wondered how different it would be if it were Bucky; if taking him would hurt too bad, or hurt just the right amount, the way he liked it.

“You mean _tonight?”_

Bucky’s hand is at the back of Steve’s neck now, thumb brushing back and forth over the place where his hair gives way to smooth skin.

“You wanna?”

Steve didn’t have to think about it. Even all his speeches about NYU, all the things he’d planned to say, were dying in his brain faster than leaves were being torn from trees outside their window. _Of course he wanted it, and of course he wanted it now, when else?_

“Buck...” He leans down, their noses brushing together just slightly. He can feel Bucky’s grip on his neck tighten, “Please f-”

And just like that, the power goes out.

* * *

If anything could kill a mood faster, Steve thinks it would break some kind of world record. Probably could go toe-to-toe with the Flash, too. 

“Uh, hold that thought...”

Bucky fumbles around in the darkness only for a few moments until he finds a flashlight underneath his bed, slapping it against his palm once, twice, until it flicks on. Down the hall, Steve hears rustling and the sounds of Becca’s feet on the wood floor. He immediately gets off the bed and stands (not even Becca knows about them, although sometimes Steve thinks she must suspect), then remembers what he was up to just a moment earlier, and hastily shoves his hands in his pockets.

The door opens. Her silhouette is barely visible, but he can tell by the hunch of her shoulders that she’s scared.

“The powers out.” Becca whispers.

“Oh yeah, genius?” Bucky asks, but affectionately, and shines the light her way so she can shuffle into the room. She treads lightly around Steve’s mess of comic books still laying dormant on the carpet.

Steve peers out the window and adds, “Looks like it’s the whole block.”

It’s strange, the rows and rows of houses lit by nothing but a cloud-covered moon; like they’re standing in some kind of wasteland. A dog begins barking frantically a few doors down.

“Branch on a power line?” Bucky suggests.

Becca, almost childishly, stands next to her brother and leans into his side. She’s only a freshman, and still getting used to being one at that. Steve thinks he can see Bucky put an arm around her in the dark and selfishly wishes that he was able to do the same.

There was one time, actually, back when they were sixteen, that she’d walked in on them wrapped up on Bucky’s bedroom floor. Always quick on his feet, Bucky had smacked Steve hard on the face, shoved him off with his elbow, and then whipped his head around and asked Becs _“Wanna learn how to wrestle? I just kicked Steve’s ass!”._ That was when they had developed the system of waiting until the rest of the house was securely in their bedrooms with the doors shut tight, before touching each-other.

Bucky’s radio, in all its battery-powered glory, is still crooning to them. 

Steve suddenly has a sickening urge to throw it out the window. He doesn’t know why. Something about the song, now being played to a dark and silent block, seems unwelcome. 

It’s _wrong._

_To know know know him,_

_is to love love love him,_

_annnnnnnnnd...._

The vocals slow, as if the record on the other end is melting, turning to honey underneath the needle. None of them dare to speak, just staring at the thing like it’s gonna grow legs. That’s when it hits.

_I reeeeeeally do, and I—EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-_

It’s this _awful_ sound.

High-pitched and unrelenting. 

They all cover their ears, Bucky dropping the flashlight in a panic, which bounces on the ground once before blinking off. Plunged into darkness again, Steve shuts his eyes for good measure, as if the horrible screeching will somehow find it’s way inside through his eyeballs. It’s an endless wave, sound flooding his bones; would Buck blame him if he just kicked the damn thing over to end _this?_ Could he even get close enough? Could he find it in the dark?

_-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—POP!_

Just as suddenly as it began, silence.

In the dim glow of the radio’s dial screen, Steve can see Becca’s horrified expression. He can tell Bucky’s rattled too, but God bless him, he huffs out a laugh anyways, and nudges his little sister’s shoulder.

“Guess Parker knocked over a mic or someth-“ Bucky starts shakily, but stops once he hears what comes next.

_ClickClickClickWhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrClickClickClick._

It’s unclear what they’re listening to, exactly. 

At first, it sounds like something wet. Crawling. A hum. Shivers shoot up Steve’s spine. Underneath the droning of it, he begins to make out a word. It's spoken by a woman's voice, or something like it, robotic, and forced.

_ClickClickClick...Un..._

_ClickClickClick...Ome..._

_ClickClickClick...One._

_Wwwwwwone._

When the lights blink back on, Becca screams.

“What the fuck?” Steve knows better than to swear in front of her, but he can’t help it. On the radio, now free of any clicks, humms, screeches, or ominous vocal tones, Parker echoes his sentiment.

_Woah, woah, what the f—I mean heck! What the heck! Guys, what the heck was that? Did you hear that?_

Bucky and Steve share a confused glance, and Becca looks like she’s ready to wake up their parents just to have more bodies in the room.

_Uh, I guess we’ll be taking your calls now, if anyone would like to comment on the... the disturbance. Oh my Gosh. We’re standing by. Oh, wow._

“What do you think that was?” Becca asks slowly.

“Probably just a Halloween prank, I bet Parker’s in on it.” Bucky says, sounding only half-convinced himself.

“You think he’s that good of an actor?” Steve asks, and gets a dirty look in response from Bucky, who’s clearly trying to get Becca to relax. Steve isn’t sure if any of them should relax. Maybe they should already be in a car speeding down the freeway.

“What if it was the Russians?” Becca continues.

“Oh my god, it’s not... “ Bucky scrubs a hand down his face, “...don’t you think Russian spies have better things to do than disrupt small town radio?”

Becca looks unconvinced. Probably courtesy of Mz. Richardson amping up the duck-and-cover drills; she’s a real xenophobe, and a huge McCarthy fan. The way it has Becs riled up makes Steve want to stop by sometime before the school year is up and let her know just exactly how useful those drills really are, as if he needs another mark on his record. A few more scuffles and his college app could be in big trouble.

“It’s probably nothing serious.” Steve adds, “I’m sure radio stations get bugs all the time, we’ve just never heard it happen.”

It’s a nice sentiment, but it doesn’t really help his case when there’s a final click, and the air goes dead.


	2. Chapter 2

How a routine date night turned into sitting in the passenger seat of Bucky’s beloved 49’ Studebaker, drifting towards the New Paltz radio outpost in search of answers to one power outage and prolonged shrieking noise, is beyond Steve. 

“The signal’s back.” Steve notes, halfway over, fiddling with the radio in his lap as if the one in the car doesn’t work perfectly well.

He turns the volume up all the way and the tune belts over a rough static.

_I don't know if we're in a garden,_

_Or on a crowded avenue..._

“Didn’t he already play this one?” Bucky asks.

Steve begins wondering if they should’ve brought a bat or not.

* * *

For a long moment after they arrive, they simply stand before the glass doors of the station, a shoddy brick monolith in the dark, and peer inside. The hallway is barely-lit and on the floor, a yellow ‘CAUTION’ fold-out sits next to a sad looking mop and bucket. A receptionists desk is empty save for a smattering of papers.

“Maybe his slot is up, he could’ve gone home.” Steve suggests.

“And forgot to turn off the record?” Bucky shoots back. “Okay, I’m gonna just...”

He exhales and apparently finds the courage to bang on the door three times, _hard_ , so the glass rattles. The noise is enough to make Steve glance over his shoulder. 

Behind them in the distance, New Paltz is sleepy. Past it’s bedtime, and yet there’s something in the air. Like every lightbulb in the city is about to pop. Like everyone’s in bed but nobody dares to fall asleep; filled with the push-pull of static electricity that makes you afraid to touch door handles. 

Or maybe that’s just the noise of the neon WKNP sign flickering twelve feet above them.

Bucky bangs on the door again with gusto, and this time it takes ten seconds before a frantic sixteen-year-old in a red knit sweater practically trips out of one of the doorways and into the hall.

“I knew he was in there.” Bucky shakes his head.

A few paces behind Parker, a girl shuffles out of the audio booth in a cream blouse and wool skirt, her curly hair pulled up high in a messy pony. Steve’s seen her before— _MJ, not Michelle,_ someone had told him that. She lives over in a rundown part of town, ten minutes drive from his own neighborhood, and Steve's seen her and Peter eating lunch toghether in the hallways, or racing off on their bikes after school. Neither have said that they’re an item flat-out, but Steve knows what it looks like when two people are trying to keep a secret that they shouldn’t have to keep in the first place, so he doesn’t pry.

Peter opens up the door with shaky hands.

“Oh, hey guys.” He sounds downright _freaked_ , “I said call in, not _come in_.”

“We just wanted to make sure everything was okay.” Steve says, glancing back at MJ who, miraculously, looks more on the bored side of scared, “Do you know what happened?

Peter stares into the night for one tense moment, and then opens the door to hurry them inside. Steve doesn’t need to be told twice—any longer and his poorly circulated fingers will start falling off one by one.

“No, we have no idea what happened.” Peter is breathless, locking the door behind the both of them again, tugging on it, “One minute I was about to play Bird Dog-”

“Great song.” Bucky interjects.

“- _great_ song, I know, and then all of a sudden, well - you heard it. It was awful. I couldn’t override it, nothing was working, and then all our equipment went down-”

“I bet it was the Russians.” MJ says smugly. Steve is suddenly very thankful they convinced Becca to stay home. “Would explain the stuff in the sky.”

Steve’s blood goes cold.

“What stuff in the sky?”

* * *

The control room is messy like someone’s been living in it. A wicker trash can is filled with crumpled bits of paper and styrofoam boxes of half-eaten burgers. In the corner, a coffee pot bubbles and sputters out hot brown liquid, next to a tower of paper cups. Steve feels like they walked in on something, but the two juniors look calm. MJ is watching the switchboard diligently as Peter does what any sensible radio host would do in a potential nuclear invasion or act of foreign terrorism—he keeps the tunes rolling.

_My friends say I’m actin wild as a bug,_

_I’m in love,_

_I’m all shook up, oh, uh-huh..._

“They’ve been coming in about every five minutes.” MJ explains. “See?”

As if on cue, a light blinks on the board, and she’s pulling cords this way and that, _click, click, click,_ flipping a switch that lets the sound of the call come through the mainframe speakers. She rests one of her hands, unmanicured in a way that’s almost tomboyish, on the headphones she’s wearing, and in a very polished voice, asks, “WKNP, do you have any information about the mysterious noise?”

The woman on the other end of the line is breathing heavily. 

Steve wants to hold Bucky’s hand, but he knows better.

“The... the noise?” She starts, “Dear, there’s something... I keep seeing _lights_ outside my window.”

“Yes, ma’am, we’ve heard a couple reports of that.” MJ says matter-of-factly, “Do you mind if I put you on air?”

MJ hovers her finger over the switch that would send the call live, but doesn’t flick it.

“No, I can’t- _please_ , do you know what’s going on? Are we safe?”

“Nobody seems to know what’s going on, ma’am. Probably best you stay inside unless the authorities report otherwise. Are you sure I can’t put you on air?”

“What did... what did that mean. _One._ One what?”

MJ doesn’t seem to have a good answer lined up. The woman disconnects after she realizes the good folks down at Radio New Paltz are just as clueless as the next guy. All four of them let out a breath of air, and before they can say _huh_ , the switchboard is lighting up yet again.

“Nobody wants to talk about what they’re seeing.” She says coldly, eyes flicking over to Peter, “We need to get out there.”

An expression creeps across Peter’s face that Steve is all too familiar with. He’s seen it on Bucky about a billion times. It’s a cross between _I love you, I hate you,_ and _I can’t argue about this again._

“I don’t know, MJ...” 

“What do you mean you _don’t know?_ ” She looks around the room incredulously, but Steve and Bucky know better than to get wrapped up in this kind of a tussle, “The first exciting thing to happen to this town in _ever_ and nobody wants to go outside and _report on it_ ? You’re in _broadcast,_ this is your _job_.”

“Well, technically I don’t get paid-”

“ _Ugh!”_ MJ throws her hands up, and suddenly she’s in motion, grabbing a big tape recorder with a microphone and two pairs of headphones. “We are _not_ sitting around in this building. Get your jacket. And _you two_.”

She spins on her heel, finger pointed. Steve and Bucky straighten up in the corner. 

“Ever wanted to be on the radio?”

* * *

“I’m just saying, you have a better voice for it.”

“I’ve never done anything like this before.”

The headphones feel huge on Steve’s head. He quickly scans the console trying to get familiar with the buttons. Parker showed him the next track switch, how to queue something up, and how to put a call on the air. _Now if he can just remember which is which._

The radio booth smells like leather and plastic. It’s soundproof; finally relief from the fits of raging wind outside. After MJ and Peter left with the recorder in hand, there was an eerie stillness that fell over the radio station. Something about it makes the whole situation worse. It feels like they’re sitting ducks.

“Guess this makes me your secretary.” Bucky’s set up in MJ’s spot, ready to connect the next person that tries to patch through. He’s shirked his leather jacket _(yeah, tell me again you’re not a greaser)_ and has a cigarette tucked behind one of his ears just in case they are about to enter a nuclear holocaust, or something.

Steve exhales. 

“What the hell is going on out there?”

Bucky seems to think on it for a moment. Out of instinct, he glances around the obviously empty room, and then scoots his chair closer to Steve. They’re alone. It’s always good, when they’re alone.

“I don’t know.” Bucky says honestly. He places a hand on Steve’s thigh, squeezes, “But I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, alright?”

“I’m not sure that’s a promise you can really make.” 

Steve knows what he means. He means hell or high water, it would take more than an act of Red Menace to tear them apart. No matter what’s out there, if it’s coming for Steve, it’s coming for him over Bucky’s dead body. 

The thought makes Steve’s stomach turn, so he decides to kiss him.

“I’m not gonna lie-” Bucky mumbles in between the soft brushes of tongue, “-and say I’m not a little freaked out, you know?”

“I know, I can tell.” Steve says; runs a hand through Bucky’s hair, “We should be back in your room right now.”

“Mm, yeah we should be.” A small smile graces Bucky’s face, “I'd be halfway through havin’ my way with you, right?”

“Sounds like something you’d do.” 

Steve imagines both of them laying together, in the afterglow of that awful twin bed, Bucky holding him close even though they’d both be drenched in sweat. 

Then he thinks about New York, and it all goes to shit. 

The kiss is over; Steve turns back to the switchboard reluctantly, and Bucky keeps himself busy by combing through a few of the milk crates stuffed with music. Maybe this was meant to be. Not the lights in the sky, the darkness, or the shrieking noises, but the timing of it all. He needs to tell Bucky about NYU, and it’s the right thing to do it before they cross some kind of unspoken point of no return. If everything goes right, it won’t end things, but long distance is hard. Not everyone’s up for it, no matter how in love they think they are.

“Buck...” Steve starts, “There’s something I gotta-“

“Oh, god _damn_ , this is what you should be spinning, Stevie.” Bucky turns around with a grin on his face, holding up a Billy Lee Riley vinyl cover. “Get it? _Well the news of a saucer been flyin’ around..._ ”

“Flying Saucer Rock n’ Roll. Hilarious, I’m sure everyone will really get a kick out of that.”

The phone line blares, _bring-bring_ , and they both jump. 

“Showtime. But seriously, queue this up.” Bucky hands him the sleeve, as if he didn’t even notice Steve was about to spill his guts, and then he’s searching for the right switch to patch the call through. A light blinks to life once he answers.

“Hi there, are you calling about the...” Bucky stops, nods, “You wanna go on the air?” 

Bucky gives Steve a pointed look, and Steve doesn’t need to be told to scramble for the talk button. He hits it, interrupts an Ella Fitzgerald song unceremoniously, right at the good part too. The expectant silence is enough to give anyone stage fright, but Steve tells himself he won’t let his voice shake, or crack, no matter what. 

The on-air sign bathes them both red. 

“Good evening, folks.” 

It comes out okay. More than okay; maybe he should’ve been doing radio this whole time. A wave of confidence surges through his frail body, and he drags the microphone closer. 

“I know I’m not your usual host, but this isn’t a very usual night, is it? We’re about to patch through a caller that can hopefully give us a little more insight...” Bucky transfers the call, confirmed by the pleasant static-buzz of the landline. “Hi there, you’re live. Before we get started, is there something I can call you?”

“No.”

The voice is distinctly older. He sounds angry. Steve’s eyes flash to Buck, then back down.

“Okay, that’s just fine.” Steve nods, “Is there anything you can tell us?”

The man on the other end clears his throat. 

“As a matter of fact, there is.” He speaks slowly, deliberately.

“Whenever you’re ready.” 

It almost has Steve wondering if it’s a prank call. Surely this would be an ideal night to neg the station, but when he speaks again, something in his voice sets Steve on the edge of his seat.

“Whatever is out there... this isn’t the first time they’ve come.” That sends a chill through Steve’s body. Bucky’s hand returns to his thigh. “Most of you kids probably don’t remember, but fifteen years ago, they were here. Just like they’re here tonight.”

“Can you tell us exactly _what_ is here? Some citizens have expressed concerns about Russian interference-”

He laughs, bitterly, and it turns into a cough. It takes him a moment to compose himself.

“It’s not the damn _Russians_.” He starts, “I don’t know what the hell they are. But I do know that they’re dangerous.”

“So you’re saying people should stay inside?”

“Hell, I don’t think _inside_ is quite inside enough. If you’re one of those lucky sons a’ bitches that’s got a bomb shelter under your floorboards, now would be a great time to give it a test drive.”

“Sir, can I ask you to refrain from using that kind of language on the air?”

“You can ask.”

Steve feels at a loss. Can he get arrested for letting someone say bitch and hell?

“What... can you tell me what happened fifteen years ago?”

Steve let’s his own hand fall, intertwining with Bucky’s fingers. He’s trembling, not that it’s such an unusual thing; he was often trembling, but this time it wasn’t the weather or his anemia to blame. 

“They only need to take one. It was almost me, but... they must’ve changed their mind.”

“Take one what? What are you talking about, exactly?”

“Listen to me!” He sounds suddenly frantic, and Steve finds himself standing up straight like he’ll need to bolt, “It’s not _safe_ out there, do you understand? Keep your eyes on the ground, while you’ve still got both of them! It’s a hell of a lot more than they left me with!”

Steve sets his jaw.

“Sir, I’m just going to ask you outright. Are you referring to an extraterrestrial encounter?”

He hears Bucky’s judgmental huff of air, and ignores it.

“That’s your word, not mine.” The man says, then “Good luck, kid.” 

_Click._

Dead air.

For a moment, neither Steve or Bucky say anything. 

And then, “Extraterrestrial? _Really?_ ”

“Oh, like you weren’t thinking about it!” Steve defends himself, and just to prove his point, grabs the Billy Lee Riley album to wave in his face.

“That was a _joke_ .” Bucky says, and smacks it out of his hand onto the booth desk, “You know what a joke is, right? Christ, you’ve been spending _way_ too much time reading Showcase.”

“This isn’t about comic books. Something’s happening. Why aren’t MJ and Peter back yet?”

“I don’t know, because they’re kids with nothing better to do-”

“And that guy on the phone, what about that? You heard what he said.”

“Oh, yeah, an old man who won’t tell you his name, great source in that one, Steve.”

Usually when they bicker like this, it’s fond. There’s a soft edge to the words they throw back and forth. Right now, though, Steve thinks that this whole situation has really gotten under Bucky’s skin. He’s let go of Steve’s hand, leaning back in his chair, eyes dark and serious.

“Why are you being such an asshole?” Steve asks.

“Because you just told every townie with a working radio that you believe in _little green Martians_ , you know how many beatings I’m gonna have to take for your ass in school next week?”

Steve stands up, and his chair squeaks back against the tile floor.

“I’m going to NYU next year!”

He means to hurt him. To change the subject. To shock him into silence. And, well... it works. Bucky’s face falls, like it’s the weirdest thing he’s heard that night. Like screeching radio waves and lights in the sky, even little green Martians, make more sense than imagining what life will look like when Steve leaves. 

“Oh my god. Buck, _shit_. I didn’t mean to tell you like that-” Steve smacks a hand over his own forehead.

“Tell me that you’re leaving.” Bucky repeats, “You we’re gonna say it, what, before or after we got into bed?”

Steve is, in a rare moment, out of words. He really tries to think of something that will make this right, but what could? This night was fucked up enough already, and he had to go taking it one step further. He could suddenly hear Nat’s voice in his head, as if she was there with them, _Classic Rogers, making trouble where you can’t find any._

The line rings again. 

_Bring bring. Bring bring._

“It doesn’t mean we have to split-“

“Stop.” Bucky shakes his head, and turns back to the switchboard, pulling on the headphones. “Please just shut up for a second.”

Bucky turns to the switchboard, disconnects a wire, connects another. He hits the call button, clears his throat.

“WKNP, do you-”

Damnit. Damnit. _Damnit._

What the fuck was Steve _thinking?_

He’d been waiting for months to tell him at the perfect time, and instead he waited until the worst possible time, and now Bucky probably thinks he’s actually _happy_ about the situation, as if he wants to up and leave, as if he wants the two of them to split up and never see each-other again; that’s so wrong, just the thought of it makes Steve skin crawl, but he's not gonna go and assume Bucky wants to uproot his life just because Steve has big stupid dreams, and-

“B _ecs?”_

Bucky’s voice comes out worried. It’s enough to snap Steve out of his one-man pity party. Rebecca’s on the line; had she been listening in?

“Becs, it’s okay, what do you mean? What are they doing? Is anyone hurt?”

Steve can hear the panic rising Bucky’s throat. Something’s wrong. Quickly placing the argument on the back burner, Steve springs into action, grabbing his own coat, grabbing Bucky’s coat, fishing the car keys out of the deep leather pocket.

“Okay, we’re on our way right now, just stay in your room. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anybody!”

Bucky hangs up the call and shoves his way past Steve, making a beeline out of the recording room. He unlocks the glass doors up front, leaving them open, not about to wait around trying to find where Parker keeps the keys. Steve barely makes it into the car; Bucky's already starting up the engine. His foot drags along the ground for a split second, and then he yanks the door closed, doesn’t have time to pull on his seatbelt before they’re lurching out of reverse.

“What did she say?” Steve asks. His belt buckle snaps, and he has to brush a few strands of hair out of his own eyes to try and read Bucky’s expression.

“It’s mom and dad. They’re standing on the front lawn.”

Bucky switches gears fast. Goes through first, all the way to fourth, in a matter of seconds once the wheels hit the road.

His face looks pale.

“What _is it?_ ” Steve presses.

The view of the radio station in the rearview mirror begins to fade, and once again, they’re two headlights in a flood of darkness.

“She said they’re just looking at the sky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the ol' man calling in was in fact nicholas j fury if i didn't make that obvious enough~


	3. Chapter 3

It’s 9:05 when they hit the road, radio off. The outpost is a good twelve minutes from Tricor, but the way Bucky’s speeding, they’ll be there in six. They’re the only car in either direction, and it sticks out as odd. Usually when things go south, there’s at least a few panicked families speeding out of town to the safety of...somewhere. New Jersey, maybe.

Steve decides to go break the silence with, “You know, I’m not trying to break up with you.” 

_It doesn’t matter what you’re trying to do,_ Bucky thinks, _if it still hurts._

“What a relief.” He gets out, torn between the weight of Steve's now-imminent departure, and the weight of his sister being at home, alone, locked in her room while his parents are, what, gawking at missiles? Having a psychotic break? He feels like _he’s_ about to have a psychotic break.

“I just know that you’ve got a good thing going at the garage.” Steve keeps on, “And, you know, it might look bad, if you left when I did.”

Bucky fixes his eyes on the road.

Thing is, anyone with a good head on their shoulders could’ve told you that this game of theirs would come to an end sooner or later. Everything was gonna change after graduation. Folks would get suspicious. A couple of highschool boys running around together could pass for normal well enough, but young men? Going for long drives, staying up late, having _sleepovers_? Bucky knew how it’d look, and he didn’t have a way to spin it. 

“You’re just gonna give me the silent treatment?”

_God, he’s a pain in the ass._

“I don’t know. I really don’t know, Steve, that was a lot, back there, you know that? This whole night has been a lot.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Bucky lets his eyes drift up from the road, into that chilly October sky. He doesn’t know what he’s searching for _—_ doesn’t want to admit this thing’s got him spooked _—_ but it’s okay. He doesn’t see anything. 

At first, he finds comfort in it, until he goes for a double take. That’s when he realizes that really, he can’t see _anything._ No stars. No moon that, just an hour or so ago, was beaming like a clean dinner plate. 

Empty.

“How can you afford NYU?”

It still doesn’t sound friendly, but the silence _is_ worse.

“I got a scholarship.” Steve says after a moment, “And I’m gonna work, probably a lot.”

“On top of school?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah. Lots of people do it.”

Bucky doesn’t have much time to make a fuss about it, start in on the _are you sure_ , and _won’t that be kinda’ hard on you_ , before Steve adds, “I heard that it’s easier to be queer in the city.”

_God._

It makes him see red for a second; takes just about all his willpower not to pull the car over and smack Steve upside the head. As if he needs to make himself an even bigger target than he already is; going around thinking that just because all his new college pals’ll be sensitive artist types, they’ll also figure that being a fag is a-okay.

“‘Cause nothing says warmth and acceptance like New York, New York.” He says through clenched teeth.

“Well, when you put it like that...” 

Bucky sees Steve lean his forehead against the glass of the window out of the corner of his eye.

There’s still no cars coming their way. 

_Where is everyone?_

The worst part is that deep down, Bucky knows this is a good thing. It’s the part of him that’s, forever and always, just Steve’s best friend, not some jilted lover. He knows how hard Steve’s been putting himself into his art, staying up late working on panel after panel, how badly he wants to see it in print, and if NYU can do that for him _—_ well, he deserves it.

Bucky sighs.

“I’m proud a’ you.”

It feels final. Maybe it is. It’s not like he can delude himself to think that Steve should stick around in New Paltz of all places just because his boyfriend had no exit strategy. And then Bucky _really_ starts thinking on it, and realizes that Steve didn’t even ask him to move. In fact, he made a point to say it was a bad idea. 

Maybe he’s eager for a clean break. 

That _—_ he needs to think on that a little more to truly feel the pain of it. If it wasn’t for the fact that his sister was still locked in some dark room, maybe he’d be halfway towards breaking down, but she was, and that meant no losing his shit until at least a few hours from now.

So he keeps his eyes on the road, and watches the milepost signs swipe by.

* * *

There is a silence that stretches on for a lifetime. 

It settles into his bones. His shoulder aches, and he ignores it. The car is colder than he remembers it being when they got in.

“I’m gonna be living in the dorms.” He hears Steve’s voice, hoarse and unfamiliar. Probably just the need for sleep beginning to creep in. Bucky’s tired too, “My luck I figure they’ll put me in with some six foot varsity player.”

He lets go of the wheel with one hand and reaches for the heat. As his fingers touch the dial, Bucky notices how pale the tips are, like he’d been outside for too long.

“Okay, now you’re just tryna’ make me jealous.” Bucky says.

It’s hard to stay upset at Steve for very long. It’s always been hard.

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.” 

“Seriously. You’re probably gonna find some closet-case hunk to be your muse and forget all about me.” Bucky teases, though the thought of Steve forgetting about him, even in jest, is enough to make him nauseous.

“Well, that’s what college is for, right?” Steve replies wearily. 

The road stretches out in front of them. It looks familiar. It looks like it has looked, for how long now? How long have they been driving? Hours? Or maybe they just left. 

With the moon and stars apparently playing hide and seek, the sky is nothing but a shadow above them. They have to be close to home. They _have_ to.That’s where his sister is, and she needs their help, because of the lawn. _Jesus, had he forgotten about that? How had he forgotten about that?_

No, they must be close to home, he reasons, because they’ve been speeding ever since they left the station at just after 9, and now it’s 9:58. 

Which means...

Bucky blinks.

Nine fifty _what?_

“Why’s the clock say that?” Bucky asks, and this time, the panic does reach his voice.

“Say what?”

“We haven’t been drivin’ for an hour, we’d be on the other side of town.”

Bucky slows his roll a little, letting the car lose speed as both of them begin search for signs of a milepost. It’s hard in the night, cradled by the river, and the woods that grow high on the outskirts.

“It’s gotta be wrong. Check your watch.” He tells Steve, and Steve does, confirming that it is in fact a minute-to-ten.

“We lost time.”

Bucky’s going through all the possibilities in his head that don’t have a damn thing to do with Steve’s visitors from Mars hypothesis. 

It could be exhaustion, or a gas leak in his car. Carbon monoxide poisoning, now there’s a real killer. Maybe they’ve been stalling out and forgetting about it, could explain why he feels so tired or it, could be-

“Buck, _stop!_ ”

There’s someone on the road. 

Make that two someones.

Bucky slams on his breaks, fast enough that Steve has to put his arms out to keep his face from bashing into the dash. The tires squeal, and then the car stands still, like a beacon of light in the darkness, and just up ahead, flooded by their headlights, inexplicably stands Peter and MJ, clutching the recorder for dear life. 

Neither seems hurt, but MJ’s hair got messier since the last time they saw the two of them, and she’s wearing Peter’s red sweater.

“What the...” He says it under his breath, and gets the good sense to put the car into park.

Bucky opens the drivers side door and clambers out. His heart is hammering, and like Perseus on the edge of eye contact with Medusa, keeps his eyes out of the sky. He doesn’t want to know what’s up there; what he can see, and what he can’t. 

“Where are we?” Bucky calls out to them.

“What do you mean?” Peter asks, and to be fair, it is an alarming question, “We’re over on Plains Road.”

_Plains Road._

_How did they end up there?_

It’s actually not too far from Tricor, but for that to work out, it means either him and Steve stopped the car for a hell of a long time, or they’d been driving in circles.

“How did _you_ get here?” Steve asks the both of them.

MJ and Peter share this weird look, like they’re not sure they should say.

“What, what is it?” Bucky asks again. 

“Well... we hitched a ride with this couple.” MJ starts, “They were driving us over to the baseball field, you know how they’re doing that big costume contest, and the... the thing for the blood bank, and, we thought people over there had to have seen something, but...” 

For the first time tonight, she sounds scared.

“They seemed nice at first. Then halfway over they just stopped talking. Started looking up at the roof of the car, and opening their mouths but not saying anything. Almost crashed us into a telephone pole before they snapped out of it, but we weren’t sticking around after that. We started running through the woods, and now we’re here.”

Bucky truly doesn’t know what to say to that. 

He’s quiet for longer than is considered polite.

“You believe us, right?” MJ asks.

“Might as well. Nothing’s making a whole lot of sense right now.” Bucky says, “We were trying to get back to my place. My little sister called the station, she said... said that our parents were...”

“Looking into the sky.” Steve finishes.

Neither MJ or Peter are fast to move. 

_It’s all about the damn sky._

Somewhere in the dark, an owl calls out. 

“Listen, are you... okay?” Peter asks, speaking to Bucky now. Something in his expression has changed. 

Bucky throws a hand up. 

“As okay as I can be when everyone I know is losing their minds, including me, why?”

“Well...” Peter starts, and stops, gestures with one finger, “You’ve got blood on your shirt.”

_That_ wakes him up. 

“What?” Steve’s voice, worried. 

Bucky almost doesn’t want to look. There’s something building up in his chest, sharp apprehension, as he glances down, and then Steve’s coming to round the front of the car. They both stare as Bucky pulls aside his jacket a little and, sure enough, the white of Bucky’s shirt is stained faintly red.

With trembling fingers, he peels back the rest of the black leather and rolls up his sleeve.

Right where his shoulder meets his arm, there’s this...

It looks like a scar. Ugly, too. No longer than your ring finger, but standing out pinkish-red against the rest of his skin, _cauterized_ even.

And then, he remembers.

* * *

“I’m proud a’ you.”

The clock read 9:09 when he said it. The speedometer, 70 MPH. Outside, the wind was whistling high-pitched, and catching on points and peaks of the car frame. 

They were just passing by a wide neck of the lake, when the car began to slow down of its own volition.

“What the hell?”

Bucky remembers tapping the gas, banging on the dashboard with a free hand, but still the car’s speed fell, fifty, forty-five, thirty miles per hour. The Studebaker crawled to a stop on the left shoulder of the road, near the water, one tire landing in a patch of tall grass.

“Jesus.” Bucky white-knuckled the wheel for a moment, before telling Steve, “Stay in the car.”

A well of smoke was seeping out, coming from somewhere inside the engine. A mechanic’s son, of course, Bucky had got out to fetch tools from the trunk, see if he could get them back on the road sooner than later.

He popped the hood. Plumes of smoke swallowed him, big billowing curtains of it, and he heard the passenger side door crack, followed by a tense, “Buck? Do you know what’s wrong?”

“Can’t see shit yet, but thanks for asking.” 

He remembers trying to fan away some of the steam, but then it was in his eyes, making him cough, and he stumbled out away from the road, towards the river. 

When his vision came back, there was nothing to look at but the lake. 

Any other night they might’ve parked the car there anyways, gone down by the banks and laid their heads on a spare jacket until the mosquitos began to attack.

The first time they’d kissed, it had been on the banks of this lake. A miserably hot night when they were sixteen, spending their summer learning how to get into proper trouble without their parents finding out. For the first time in his life, Bucky had just about the most important thing a sixteen-year-old could have: a car. _Oh_ , how the Studebaker had filled him with joy, and a nagging desire to blow as much money on gas as possible. 

He’d driven them all out to the woods, only stalling twice, Steve and Natasha and Sam crowded into the back while all their overnight bags and sleeping rolls were stuffed into the passenger seat. He remembers Steve complaining about being in the middle, his thigh awkwardly pressed against Natasha’s, as Bucky blared Elvis loud enough to drown out his whining.

They’d stayed up till ass-o-clock eating s’mores and taking turns passing around anything that could count for a scary story, half-recalled, half made up on the spot.

“And then, she opened the door and... and...” Natasha was giggling, drunk on the bottle of Vodka she’d managed to smuggle out of her dad’s liquor cabinet, “... there was...”

“Just say hook hand!” Sam pleaded. His fingers, like all of their fingers, were sticky with bits of marshmallow.

“It’s not a hook hand! That’s so _trite_. It’s a...” Natasha went in for another sip, and came up dry “...dang, is this empty?”

Bucky shared a tent with Steve.

At that point, he hadn’t the common sense to think it might be odd. If Nat or Sam thought so, they didn’t say.

“Are you awake?” He’d whispered sometime past one in the morning.

“Yeah.”

Bucky had been lying sleepless for what felt like hours, sweat pooling just below his neck, and in the places where his body touched the sleeping bag.

“S’ fucking hot. I’m gonna go get into the water, I can’t stand it.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You sure you’re not gonna catch your death out there?”

“At this point, I might catch it in here.”

They’d waded in naked. The second he was up to his waist, Bucky sighed, and let himself fall face forward, down under the water until he couldn’t hold his breath anymore. When he came up for air, he’d seen Steve still hovering in the shallow, and instinct kicked in; that childish motive to rush forward, grab him by the shoulders, and shove him under the water.

But Steve wasn’t a kid anymore, and while he might’ve been ninety pounds wet, he could still resist. They grappled like that, until Bucky lost footing under the water, and they were falling, slipping, keeping their heads afloat, and he couldn’t really tell you who started it. Who grabbed the other; leaned forward, opened their mouth.

Could only tell you that the first time he kissed Steve, lips cold and wet under the stars, he understood why everyone wrote songs about love, and nothing else. 

* * *

_October. Senior year. Just past 9._

The reflection of the moon was shifting back and forth across the lake, soft currents tossing rays of light this way and that. 

It looked beautiful. At least, it looked beautiful at first, until the water began to go still, and Bucky realized there wasn’t just the reflection of one moon, but _two_ distinct round shapes glowing on the surface of the water. 

Something was in the sky.

Why, he could see it, if he just looked up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand scene! Thank you sm if you've come along for this little spooky vintage fantasy, and a special thank you to tash for being my cheerleader, and hyping me up to finish ♡
> 
> Playlist is updated to include new song additions. Enjoy!

The absence of music makes the ride back to Tricor seem long. By God's good grace or _something_ , the car keeps rolling past the New Paltz city limits without a hitch.

Steve clears his throat. 

“So. Flying Saucer Rock n’ Roll.”

“Don’t start.” Bucky snaps back. 

As if MJ and Peter need to listen to them go at it.

* * *

The car screeches into Bucky’s driveway, and he’s out the door before Steve can even get his seatbelt unbuckled, disappearing into the house.

“You two just... hang on.” Steve says over his shoulder, and then he’s clambering out as well.

“Yeah, no problem, man.” Peter says. “We’ll just be here. Not doing anything, just sitting next to each-other-“

Steve doesn’t hear the rest. He’s making quick strides across the lawn, up the steps, and inside the Barnes residence. 

There’s a lot of different ways a family could react to an alien invasion, so Steve doesn’t know what he expects to see, exactly. But being a comic geek and all, he’s been cooking up some ideas. It might go down like this: Mr. and Mrs. Barnes levitating in the dining room, the house empty and dark, Rebecca's screams echoing through the halls. Or maybe the two of them dead on the ground, eyes burnt clean out, hollow with twisting vines of smoke, and the smell of death. He braces himself for the television in the living room screeching with static, and the coils of lightbulbs popped and simmering, for horrors beyond the imagination, yet when he rounds the corner he sees Bucky, standing, looking on as-

They’re eating ice cream. 

They’re all just— eating _ice cream._ Sitting around the heavy oak dining table like they just got back from Church on a Sunday.

“Darling, where have two of you _been_?” Winnie’s voice sounds calm, even tempered. “We were worried sick.”

_Huh._

“We... Becs....” Steve is out of breath just from the stint across the lawn, but that isn’t really the reason he’s having trouble coming up with an answer. 

“Oh, Rebecca just had a nightmare. And she’s _very_ sorry she scared you.”

Steve and Bucky both turn to Rebecca, who glances around the room, and then nods.

“Yeah.” She says. “I was just really confused. Sorry.”

Her eyes bug out for a second. Bucky's parents miss it, but Steve gets the idea pretty quick-smart that whatever happened, George and Winnie don’t remember a damn second of it. Likely wouldn’t believe their side of the story if they tried to remind them, either.

“Right.” Bucky runs a hand through his hair. “We’re, ah- we’re sorry too. Got sidetracked giving some juniors a ride. Lost track of time.” 

“Well, we’re glad you’re home safe.” Winnifred smiles, and then gives Steve a serious look. “Steven, your mother called. I told her you two were out for a drive, but you should ring her back soon and let her know you’re alright. It’s _such_ a strange night.”

“Yeah, it really is.” Steve agrees. “I will, I promise.”

“Good.” She smiles, and then nods to the tub laying on the table. “Ice cream?”

* * *

“Where do you live?”

When Steve and Bucky get back to the Studebaker, they catch sight of Peter quickly unwinding an arm from MJ’s shoulders and scooting to the other side of the backseat. It’s admittedly, very cute. 

“Oh, no, we’re not going home.” Peter shakes his head. _Great._ “After all that? There’s dead air right now, we - we gotta go back to the station.”

Steve can’t help but smile. 

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I mean, I think Flying Saucer Rock n’ Roll would actually be a really good way to end the night. Maybe, make everyone stop wondering if they’re about to get nuked, and stuff?”

“That, and the phone lines are probably going _insane_ right now.” MJ adds.

Bucky turns to the backseat.

“You guys are really into this, aren’t you?” He asks, fondness evident in his voice.

Peter shrugs. 

“What _else_ is there to do in New Paltz?”

* * *

Despite the fact that the four of them spend a whole lot of time glancing up into the sky, the moon stays put.

Steve feels like a dance chaperone dropping MJ and Peter off, like he should say _be safe kids_ and give them a rubber just in case. They rush out of the car with hurried thanks, lock the KWNP doors behind them, and then Steve and Bucky are alone again. 

Bucky doesn’t give Steve a second to start talking, just puts the car into reverse and revs the engine hard, flicking on the car's stereo. He turns the volume up about as loud as it’ll go. It’s in time for them to hear a certain caffeinated junior regain control of the airwaves.

 _Wow, sorry guys, that was insane! We pretty much almost died, but that’s the risk you run when you’re leading the dangerous life of a radio personality, never know what’s gonna’ come at you next. But I know what’s coming at you guys next, and it’s courtesy of Billy Lee Riley. Make sure to call in with your take: What the heck happened tonight? Red scare, or something else? Something, maybe_ ... _from outer space!_

Guitar licks rip through the car, and Steve makes a rare decision to keep his trap shut all the way back.

* * *

If it weren’t for all the medications in his overnight bag, Buck would’ve likely dropped Steve home so they could keep up the cold-shoulder. As it were, they get back to the house, and Steve uses the phone to ring his ma’ and let her know that he hasn’t been sucked up into the sky or taken out by a communist militia. _I heard you on the radio!_ She fawns, half proud and half plain old surprised, and Steve manages a weak _oh, you caught that?_ before she’s fussing about whether or not he’s coming home for the night. He tells her that he is. He wishes he wasn’t.

By the time Steve makes it up to Bucky’s room, Rebecca is sitting on the twin bed next to Bucky, who glances over his shoulder at Steve.

“Hey, shut the door, would you?” He asks, and Steve does.

“I know I wasn’t imagining it.” Rebecca sounds exhausted, like she’d gone over this with her parents a few times. “They were standing there for a long time, and I saw this big thing in the sky, like a spotlight, but I couldn’t see what was making it.”

Bucky nods.

“I know.” He assures her. “We... we saw something too, out on the freeway.”

Steve moves forward to kneel on Bucky’s rug, start collecting his comics where he’d left them laying open on the floor, abandoned in a rush.

“MJ and Peter saw something too.” Steve adds. “They said they were driving with a couple who got all distant, almost crashed the car.

Rebecca frowns, and turns back to Bucky.

“So is it over?”

That’s a great question. Steve’s been wondering the same thing, because for about an hour, the radio has been working proper, the sky has been empty save for the stars and moon, and nobody has lost time. 

Bucky says, “Yeah, I think it’s over.”

* * *

When they eventually get Becs calm enough to fall asleep, it’s almost midnight. Bucky comes back from her room looking beat, still wearing his jacket to cover up the blood—God, Steve can’t even make sense of that—and immediately he falls backwards onto the bed and slings an arm over his face.

“I can walk home.” Steve offers.

“Are you kidding?” Bucky asks wearily. “S’ fine, I’ll drive, just give me a sec.”

Steve stands up, overnight bag laying packed at his feet.

“Or...” He walks closer to the bed, although Bucky doesn’t respond. “I could stay.”

Bucky does look at him then, eyes bloodshot with sleeplessness. He doesn’t say anything, just stares, so Steve sits on the edge of the bed and places one of his thin hands on the flat of Bucky’s chest.

“I love you.” Steve starts under his breath. “I’d just - I’d thought about how I was gonna tell you over and over again, and I ended up doing it in just about the worst way possible. I get that. But I was... scared that you’d hate me for leaving, or that if I asked you to come with, you’d...“ 

Bucky was looking at him properly now, eyes attentive and searching, propped up on his elbows.

“But tonight? Tonight has been _fucked up.”_

A smile pulls at Bucky’s mouth. Steve smiles too and, taking it as a good sign, reaches forward to slide a hand into Bucky’s messy brown hair.

“I’m pretty sure little green martians from outer space tried to cut off your arm. If we can make it out of that, then... why the hell _should_ we break up?” Steve swallows, and says what he wanted to say in the first place. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Bucky’s face is blank for a moment. Then he sits up straight, and this dopey look comes over him. 

“You’re not... lookin’ for a fresh start?”

It sounds wounded.

Steve makes a noise in the back of his throat.

“Fresh start?” He grabs Bucky’s face, tilts it up. “Buck, you’re the best thing in my life. I want _this_ , always.” 

And Bucky grins ear to ear, and then he’s tackling Steve. Dragging him forward and pulling him down onto the bed, which is risky without the door locked, but Steve isn’t even _thinking_ about it now. They end up on their sides, tangled, legs and limbs knotted together in all different kinds of ways.

“You know...” Bucky brushes the hair out of Steve’s face, sounding like himself again all at once. “I’m willing to bet I’d make a damn good New Yorker.” 

Steve kisses him hard.

* * *

### October 31st, 1959

People, as it turns out, are very good at rationalizing the things they can’t forget, and forgetting the things they can’t rationalize. At first, tales of the lights over New Paltz were running wild like lightning through a storm. You’d catch them whispered in the hallways and locker rooms of New Paltz High, or woven into mundane quips about the weather, down outside the barbershop as fellas got their loafers polished. Then, local news put out an official report. The lights observed were nothing more than pioneering weather balloon technology that had flown a little too close to home. They also emphasized that the activity was _completely_ unrelated to the disappearance of one Missus Chrissie Everhart, who worked for the paper. She was currently presumed a runaway, and the authorities were taking the proper measures to ensure her safe return.That satisfied enough people. It stopped being conversation at the laundromat, or out on the tennis courts. 

Steve hasn’t forgotten a damn thing. 

The noise on the radio. The unnatural blackness of the sky. The scar on Bucky’s shoulder that stubbornly won’t fade. Sometimes, him and Peter, or MJ, will see each-other on the street and share a knowing nod, as if to say _some fuckin’ weather balloon, right?_ But it doesn’t matter what they think. The world spins on.

There’s enough distance between that night and All Hallows’ Eve for the town to develop a good sense of humor about it, too. 

At least three different local Sock Hops are outer-space themed, and so far, Steve’s answered the door for about eight different kids with antennae on their heads. By the time he opens the door for his friends, he’s so _deeply_ expecting another round of it, he starts saying “ _You know a girl’s been missing for almost two weeks-”_ before stopping himself. Instead, he sets down the bowl of candy, and huffs at the sight before him.

“That’s barely a costume.”

“Hey, I look swell.” Bucky protests, and then holds up a hand. “Wait, wait, here we go-” And he wiggles his legs from side to side, standing up on his tiptoes and giving Steve a wink.

_Elvis. How original._

Bucky had gone all starstruck when they watched Jailhouse Rock for the first time, so it really shouldn’t be that much of a surprise, seeing him done up in the tight jeans, the striped shirt, hair coiffed to the heavens. A few paces behind him, Sam and Natasha are watching the exchange with mirth.

“You’re seriously wearing that again? It still _fits?_ ” Sam asks Steve, raising his eyebrows.

Steve can’t really be bothered, nor has the money, to go in search of a new costume every year, so it’s been the same cowboy hat, boots, and hip holster since he was—Jesus, _twelve,_ maybe? The clothes had hung big on him at first, and regrettably, it does still fit.

“My mom let it out for me.” He lies, and nods to Sam’s own outfit. “Jackie Robinson?”

“One and only.” Sam grins, and holds up his bat. “Plus, if those East side germs are achin’ for a breakin’, I’m ready.”

“If Steve can keep his mouth shut, I’m sure it won’t come to that.” Natasha says with a smirk.

Steve thinks she looks cold, but she’s beautiful—clad in black tights, a tutu that juts straight out from her hip, and red ballet flats. Her hair is pulled up into a neat bun.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Bucky grins at Steve, and fixes him a look that usually means trouble. “Mr. Beaker’s house ain’t gonna egg itself.”

And just like that, the four of them are disappearing into the jack-o-lantern dotted streets, through a sea of white curtains, and green painted faces.

* * *

_I'm confessin' that I love you._

_Tell me, do you love me too?_

_I'm confessin' that I need you,_

_Honest I do, need you every moment._

Over the sound of the record spinning, the wind rustles that old oak tree that grows close to Bucky’s bedroom window, and the branches tap and squeak against glass. Nails on chalkboard.

“That was... _wow._ ”

Bucky’s floor is littered with candy wrappers, several comic books flipped open to particularly nifty spreads (Steve had been telling Sam and Nat about the panel composition, before they had to go home), and the remnants of two Halloween costumes. 

Underneath the covers of the twin bed, Steve is pressed in close against Bucky’s chest, their noses brushing against each-other every once in a while as they lay there, bones feeling just about the same consistency as warm taffy.

“Yeah. Wow.” Bucky echoes sleepily. He glances over Steve’s face. “It didn’t hurt, did it?”

“It did.” Steve says honestly, then smiles. “But I liked it.”

Bucky kisses him slowly, like the rest of their lives are just this. Midnight on Halloween, resting in the afterglow, lips still raw from biting, and sweet with the taste of chocolate. 

“Yeah, made that kinda’ obvious the way you were damn near squawking, I swear, we shoulda’ got a motel room, Nat was right, you just can’t keep your big mouth shu-”

In a flurry of movement, Steve grabs the pillow right out from under his head and brings it down on his face with a smack. Bucky laughs— _Hey!_ —and grabs Steve by the waist where he’s still bare-chested, wrestles him down again.

They both go still at once. Can’t afford to be reckless like that, even for a second. Did they wake Missus Barnes? Would George be on his way with a flashlight, or even Becs, going to make sure neither of them were sleepwalking?

Silence. 

The branches scrape the window.

Bucky lets out a breath.

“So.” He rolls onto his side, and fixes Steve with a serious face. “You got a promise to keep.”

Steve swallows.

“I do?”

“You said you’d show me the comic you’ve been working on. The one the college liked so much?”

_Right. Shit. He’d said that._

“I don’t know, Buck, it’s still a draft.”

“Well, if it was good enough for an admissions board, it’s good enough for me.” He pouts his bottom lip. “Please?”

Steve sighs in defeat, and reaches down onto the floor for his backpack. He roots around amongst empty inhalers, books, sketch pads, until he lays hands on the amateurish bunch of papers he’s stapled together to resemble a real comic book. He pulls it out, laying his head back against the pillow and handing it over to Bucky, who studies it for a moment, fingers brushing over the cover, and then opens it up.

“Captain _America?_ Since when are you a patriot?”

“It’s not like you’d think.” Steve leans his head against Bucky’s shoulder, daring to glance at his own linework. “Whole point of it is he’s standing up for what’s right. And kicking Nazi ass.”

Bucky flips through a few of the pages, pausing on each, until he comes across a panel with mostly grey tones. The flashback. Steve knows it might as well be a self portrait, skinny blonde kid facing off with four older boys, getting his teeth knocked in.

“Oh, I get it.” Bucky says under his breath. He lolls his head to the side, and holds up the cover again. “You know I don’t want you to look like this, right?”

“It’s not about me.”

Bucky smirks knowingly, but doesn’t protest. Instead, he opens it up to the same page, and keeps reading from there.

“Well, whatever it’s about, it’s damn great.” He says, grinning at an image of Cap socking Hitler in the jaw. “No wonder NYU wants you so bad.”

The record Bucky put on earlier ( _gotta set the mood, right?_ ) finally comes to an end, needle hitting back and forth aimlessly.

“Wanna see what’s on the radio?” Steve suggests.

Bucky pulls a face.

“Oh gosh, I dunno, do we? Speaking from experience, tuning in to Parker’s show is bad news.”

He’s grinning as he says it, getting out of bed in just his boxers and padding over flick on the faithful little radio. It warbles for a moment as Bucky tunes it to the right station, and Steve half-braces himself for a screech, just in case. But _music_ floods the room once again, saxophone and clanging of a gong, that Steve recognizes as the tail-end of Midnight Stroll by The Revels.

_You know, New Paltz, Halloween is about getting the bejesus scared out of you._

Steve can picture it now: Peter in one of those obnoxious bow-tie-sweater combos he wears, MJ watching him from the corner of the soundbooth with equal parts abject boredom and adoration.

_But it’s also about love! Now, I know what you’re thinking. Love? What’s love got to do with ghosts and zombies? Well, only everything! What’s more romantic than a full moon, a chill in the air, and a reason to pull your sweetheart close to you? That’s why we’re kicking off the witching hour at Radio New Paltz with a song for all you guys and gals out there going steady with someone. Happy Halloween, stay safe, and get cozy with The Five Satins!_

Soft cymbals, guitar, churn out of the radio’s tiny speakers.

_Kiss my lips, hold my hand._

_Tell me you love me, I’m your lover man._

“This is the _Platters._ Seriously, who let this kid on air?” Bucky laughs and shakes his head, but Steve isn’t paying attention to the song anymore. When Bucky catches sight of his expression, he pauses, and ducks his head. “Hey now, Stevie, what’s that look for?”

Steve tosses the sheet aside, and grins at him.

“Come back to bed and I’ll tell you.”

**Author's Note:**

> say hello to me @tresorbarnes on tumblr dot hell, if you fancy it. and thank you for reading!


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